


Once Upon a Time

by edibleflowers



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 19:05:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7857472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edibleflowers/pseuds/edibleflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Talking about the past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once Upon a Time

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit of fluff I wrote a while back. The prompt was "a long time ago". It's sat without a title for a long time, so I finally decided to just post the damn thing. Set late in DA:I.

"Tell me about when you decided to join the Inquisition," Aravel says lazily.

Dorian drags his attention away from the fingers absently tracing circles on his chest, swallows the mouthful of wine and leans over to set the goblet on the side table. "That was so long ago," he murmurs. "Sure you don't want to hear something more exciting and recent?"

"'Exciting and recent' tends to involve slaughtering lots of red lyrium-infected soldiers in freezing parts of Thedas," Aravel replies, and Dorian chuckles. It's true: lately, with Corypheus laying low, the Inquisitor has been working on rooting out Samson's red lyrium mining operations and freeing locals from slavery in said mines. At least for the moment they've a little time to themselves, returned to Skyhold so that Aravel can attend to matters of paperwork and noble placation, and nearly every night now they retire together to the Inquisitor's lushly-appointed quarters overlooking the keep. Dorian doesn't have to tell Aravel how much he prefers the huge comfortable bed to his tiny, poorly-insulated room in the inn. If anything, the fact that he's practically moved into Aravel's suite says it all.

"Come on," Aravel insists, poking Dorian in the ribs now. "You never said how it started."

"Oh, all right." With a sigh, Dorian sits up a bit, pulling a pillow behind him to cushion himself against the carved bedstead. Obligingly, Aravel moves with him, a lean arm draped over Dorian's broader chest, smooth jaw resting on Dorian's shoulder. "I had already fled my parents' household at the time, as I think I've mentioned to you, after Father had me under house arrest there..."

Aravel nods, his mouth working a moment. Dorian's hand finds a place buried in his lover's soft hair, and Aravel's face eases just a little. "If I'd known," he begins.

"I know," Dorian says, quiet. The confrontation between himself and Halward Pavus would have gone in an entirely different direction. In a way, he's glad it didn't; in others, not so much. He clears his throat and continues. "I was at a tavern halfway to Val Royeaux when the Breach opened. I'd already sold the amulet, but even so I had barely enough pocket money to eat, and I was spending most nights sleeping in the open. _Not_ the way I prefer to travel, mind." Aravel snorts. Dorian's hand squeezes Aravel's nape, a fond gesture. "I remember people were shouting about the sky being ripped open, and everyone in the tavern ran outside to look. When I saw it for myself, I had to find out what happened."

"How long did it take for word to spread about the explosion at the Conclave?" Aravel asks.

"Days, if that. There was all sorts of speculation at first, especially since no one could tell exactly where the Breach was located at that distance. But I decided to travel in that direction, and before long, reports came from people traveling the other way. Rifts were opening, demons pouring out, madness abounding. Quite a few people thought it was the same mage who blew up the chantry in Kirkwall, doing his best to destroy the rest of the organization. Eventually word came of the Inquisition and the work you were doing."

"And word of the Herald," Aravel says, his voice resigned.

Dorian tilts his head to kiss Aravel's forehead. Aravel's smile, when he pulls back, is rueful: Dorian knows Aravel doesn't believe as the Chantry does, that the Dalish have their own gods, and that the idea of an elf being Andraste's Herald is one Aravel would gladly never hear spoken again. "And word of the Herald," he repeats. "As well as rumors of what you and your mark could do, closing the rifts and all that. I thought, if it was true, I had to help somehow. I was in Ferelden when I heard that all the escaped mages were holing up in Redcliffe village, and when they spoke of a Tevinter magister at their head..."

Now he's the one who goes quiet, and Aravel the one who pushes up to sit next to him, sliding an arm around his shoulders to comfort him. Dorian lets himself be coddled for a moment, no more. Felix is gone, and Alexius a broken man, no longer a threat. "That was my way in," he says at last. "But I didn't truly mean to join the Inquisition until I saw you walk into the chantry in Redcliffe."

Aravel's smile, soft and warm, evokes an answering one from Dorian's lips. "Do you know," Aravel says, "the first time I saw you in that chantry, I thought..."

"What did you think?" Dorian's smile widens into a grin. "That I was the handsomest, most dashing man you'd ever seen in your life?"

"Actually, I thought you were a bit of a flashy ponce," Aravel says, deadpan, and Dorian bursts into laughter despite himself. It catches: for a moment Aravel giggles helplessly along with his lover. "I did!" he insists, when he can talk again. "You seemed all style, no substance. Beating a demon to death with your staff!"

"I'd drained myself of magic!" Dorian protests, though his shoulders still shake with involuntary laughter. "You took your time about making your way up to the chantry after Felix passed you the note, I had no recourse but to resort to physical violence."

"Poor you," Aravel chuckles, pressing a kiss to Dorian's temple. "It wasn't the best first impression, but being fair, I had difficulty trusting most humans back then."

"And now?" Dorian lifts his head, meeting Aravel's dancing eyes. "Has your opinion changed at all?"

"About you," the Inquisitor murmurs, and tips his head in for a leisurely kiss, "it most definitely has."


End file.
